


In Your Room

by Miss_M



Series: J/B in Depeche Mode Key [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Depeche Mode
Genre: Epiphanies, F/M, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t want to think of her, but who else is there, when he has only ever had Cersei and his hand?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Room

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics can be found [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/depechemode/inyourroom.html). I own nothing.

He doesn’t want to think of her, but who else is there, when he has only ever had Cersei and his hand? 

Not even his right hand anymore. 

His left is not as strong, or as sure, or as skilled. Still, not entirely useless. He has gotten quite good with laces, especially untying them, Jaime thinks wryly. 

He is lying on his back, on the hard earth and a thin bedroll, and not paying attention to the stars. He would like to close his eyes and concentrate, but his eyes keep opening against his will and darting glances at the woman lying on the other bedroll, her back to him. Jaime tells himself the wench is fast asleep and unlikely to wake because of the slick slide of his hand on his cock, the noises which escape him. 

So he closes his eyes, and she is there, unbidden, unwanted. Irresistible, as she always was. Golden hair, golden skin. Shiny and glorious as the lion of their House, and as cold as the gold in Casterly Rock’s coffers. Cersei was a sorceress, she could control time. Mere moments could seem like hours when he was inside her, and she could make it all vanish in a blink. He never did see morning come beside her. Even on the nights when Robert was away hunting, Cersei would insist Jaime leave well before dawn. More often than not, he would roll off her and she would command him to be gone at once. She was his queen, his sister, his everything. He had to obey. She may as well have tattooed her name across his face, a slave mark for all to see. 

Jaime strokes himself, though he doesn’t want to think about Cersei. So at least he tries to be honest, in the dim, half-lit chambers of his mind. He never was Cersei’s slave. She was no Maegi to suck out his soul and keep it in a sealed jar, compelling his every action. He maimed and would have killed for her, because she needed it and he wanted her. He went to her willingly, again and again, because she was the only one he ever considered wanting. 

His hand has been moving at a steadily mounting pace, but he makes himself slow down. Cersei’s ripe tits, her wet cunt are so clear in his mind he is certain he could touch her if he reached out with his free hand ( _his right hand, always there in his sleeping and waking dreams_ ), so he pulls himself back and takes a deep breath. 

Jaime’s mind casts about for something else to latch onto, but it is no use. She has always been the only one. 

He remembers the time, not too long after Cersei wed Robert, when she had too much spiced wine one evening and insisted Jaime fuck her on the Iron Throne. Jaime tried to talk her out of it, but words were never any use to her when she was in that state. So he did the only thing he could have done. He climbed the broad, shallow stone steps up to that bristling monstrosity, and sat on it for the second and last time in his life. And when Cersei came to him, eyes glinting with savage, gleeful anticipation, hiked up her skirts and went to straddle him, Jaime very deliberately let the blades in the armrests cut him. 

As his vein-fresh blood dripped down his fingers and soaked into his pristine cloak, he couldn’t help smirking at the memory of the Mad King, forever picking at the fresh scabs on his arms. Cersei’s pretty ruby lips twisted in disgust at the sight of Jaime’s blood, Jaime’s smile. She dropped her skirts and flounced off, a little unsteady on her feet. It was the only time Jaime ever told her no until that day in the White Sword Tower, a hand short and a purpose weighing heavy on his heart. 

He is still hard, but he almost gives up, almost ties his laces as best he can and tries for sleep. He doesn’t want to think about Cersei, and if he can think of nothing ( _no one_ ) else, better he reconcile himself to being a complete cripple. 

Brienne mutters and sniffs, and rolls over. 

Jaime imagines himself a part of that godsforsaken Wall his brother raved about for years, as he lies unmoving, unbreathing, his head turned to face her, his cock in his hand. Brienne’s cheeks are lightly flushed in who knows what dream, and her eyes remain closed. Jaime would suspect anyone else of feigning those deep, steady breaths, but not Brienne. She would blush so the dark ruin of her cheek would turn purple with it, were she awake and aware of what he is doing. 

Jaime watches her sleeping face. The starlight does little to soften her features, but he finds himself wondering, not at this woman’s extraordinary and terrible ugliness, nor at the unimaginable blue of her eyes. He wishes there were a full moon so he could see her freckles better. 

They blend together in the starlit night, like wine stains on her skin, but Jaime knows if the light were better or if he could look at her more closely, he would find myriads of tiny dots swirling across her broad nose, what is left of one cheek and all of the other, her unblemished brow, see them vanish inside her jerkin like a waterfall spilling down her long throat, dissolving and reforming like waves around the breaker of the noose’s mark. Brienne’s hands are folded under her cheek, but even so Jaime knows they are covered with the many nicks and cuts and small scars of hard living and a swordswoman’s daily practice. And entire constellations of freckles. 

Jaime draws a sharp breath, loud enough to wake the dead, a hiss of wind which could raze entire castles. His eyes do not waver from Brienne’s sleeping face, his cock twitches and throbs in his unmoving fist. 

He squeezes, strokes hard, and finds that his body is watching him archly. He imagines himself, his old self, immaculate armor, two hands, shit for honor and no silver in his hair, watching him where he lies in the starlight next to a sleeping giantess, nodding his head in approval. _Took you long enough_ , his old self seems to say, that still-familiar smirk playing on his clean-shaven face. 

Jaime doesn’t close his eyes. He tells himself it is so he will see if the wench begins to stir, but he knows it is so he can watch her. Her ugly, freckled face ( _fleetingly he remembers teasing his cousin Daven about the Redwyne girl; his breath hitches in his throat, and not only because he is rubbing his thumb over his cockhead_ ). Her closed eyes ( _sapphires? No. Blue flames, fire spirits, something living, something which could only give life, not consume and destroy_ ). He thinks of Brienne looking at him with those eyes, her words of courage and faith, her muscular body veiled in steam. How her skin would heat up under his hand, better than any warm bath. 

His eyes flutter shut, his hand jerks, short, sharp tugs on his flesh, and he tries not to moan. He spills over his fingers, while in his mind Brienne is a long pillar of skin and flesh which obscures the stars as she rides him, Brienne is moaning his name, Brienne is squeezing him with her thighs fit to cut his breath in half, and Jaime only has one hand with which to touch her. He wishes for two, but one is enough, judging from how she smiles, her lids heavy, her eyes shining down at him with a gentle, pleased, sated light. 

Jaime milks one last moment of pleasure, intense as a biting wind, licks and bites his lower lip, and imagines rolling Brienne over, his weight on her, her horsey teeth and broad mouth under his, tongues tangling. A thank you and a promise. 

He opens his eyes and glances at Brienne as he tucks himself back into his smallclothes, wipes his hand on the grass. She sleeps on, shoulders and chest lifting and falling with slow, deep breaths. Mouth slightly open, breath whistling softly over her plump lower lip, the sight and sound making Jaime’s soft cock twitch one last time ( _a promise_ ). She is still as ugly as ever, but Jaime wishes she would wake. Wishes it so badly he nearly reaches over and shakes her awake with his still-sticky hand. 

Pulls his hand back when it is almost touching her, and rolls onto his side so he is facing her. This is not a game; she is not his mirror, his twin, a prize to be won, a captive to be held. Brienne has true fire in her as well as real innocence, even if she hardly seems to notice it herself. Jaime wants to see her smile at him as he just imagined her, wet and slick and bone-happy, wants it more than he can remember ever wanting anything before, but as new as the knowledge ( _if not the desire_ ) is, this is not the way. He has no idea how to go about it, but he’s the bloody Kingslayer and everything he has been since he earned that name. If anyone can find a way, he will. 

Jaime mimics Brienne’s pose, knees slightly bent, hand under his cheek, facing her. He can smell his sweat and seed on his fingers, wonders if it might not be best simply to make more noise next time, so the wench wakes and catches him at it. Trust in his quick tongue to find the words to bring her closer before she can flee, then use his tongue and fingers to quicken her to moaning, bright-eyed willingness, make her wet and eager for him. 

He smiles as he closes his eyes, listens to Brienne’s soughing breaths, a sound like the distant sea and Spring breeze. He will steal nothing, cheat her out of nothing. What he wants, he will give her and receive from her willingly or not at all. His phantom fingers stir, a golden scent lingers in his nostrils, the memory of fresh cuts all along his arms burns him for a long moment. The past always there, cannonballs shackled to his feet. Jaime does not mind, his tired, sated breaths soaring with an unfamiliar, rushing, water-burbling hope.


End file.
